


Dreams? Maybe

by Teland



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Time, Frottage, Insecurity, Introspection, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-13
Updated: 1998-12-13
Packaged: 2020-12-12 19:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20999483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: John never comes inside.





	Dreams? Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Conversation with kormantic about the Dreamland ep led to this. Many thanks to Iain for beta!

Langly was pissed.

That much was clear. While the man *always* seemed to be   
hooked to some invisible source of current -- looking at   
him had long since made John believe that those blissed-out   
"jackheads" in cyberpunk novels had to be a massive   
mischaracterization -- but this was different. 

Langly was simultaneously pacing feverishly through the   
cluttered little house, chewing his hair, and muttering   
darkly. And continuously. It would probably be soothing   
were it not for the small tornado of paper in his wake...   
Soothing. 

John shook it off, and forced himself to think of the   
inevitable foul mood that would fall on the place when it   
was time to clean up Langly's mess. He could, conceivably,   
just pick the papers up as Langly went, but then the other   
man would have to brush past him each time he finished a   
lap, look at him perhaps.

John didn't care to become the focus of Langly's anger; the   
younger man had his cruelty, and, lately, it was harder to   
shake it off. There would be an argument, and he'd   
gradually wear Langly down until he apologized -- but not   
until John *himself* had gotten angry. And there was   
nothing he'd ever been able to do about that...

Perhaps it was better to just give Langly his head. Perhaps   
his way was just *better*, period. After all, he got it all   
out... at whoever was available. Never had to go to bed   
red-faced, never had to punch at a pillow until he felt   
stupid and then more angry for being such a... such a   
damned pathetic wimp. Never had to hover outside another's   
door and wish he could knock.

Not another's. Langly's.

Frohike would be the more rational choice. The man was   
older, knew and understood so much that sometimes John   
wondered what it might have been like to have him as a   
brother, a young uncle. And the answer to that was never   
anything more dangerous than "better."

But it was always Langly's door at those times, and so he   
never knocked, and so he went back to his own room and   
waited for dawn to become too painful for him to leave his   
eyes open anymore.

There was good in that -- Langly always congratulated him   
when he slept late. Would clap him on the shoulder and make   
yet another snide remark about "escaping his narc roots."   
It was good to roll his eyes at Langly, too. He always   
grinned at it, and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes   
spoke of that sort of kindness he'd never be able to offer   
without the excuse of being a wise ass.

"... just sitting there, anyway?"

It took a moment to realize he was being spoken to.

"Jesus, Byers, who the fuck slipped you decaf this morning?   
You've been so fucking *calm* all day I want to goose you   
just to get a reaction."

"Hmmm...? You want to goose me?" John really wasn't all   
that dazed, but...

"What? No, dammit. I want-- I... Why am I the only one   
pissed here?"

Faint hint of a blush, a move backward when he was already   
several feet away... John never doubted that Langly knew   
what he wanted from him, but these painful little games of   
tease and retreat were all he had. It could have been   
worse.

"Because there's nothing to be pissed about." 

"Ah, and so that's why Mel stormed outta here like his   
goddamned ass was on fire."

"No, he left because he wants to frame the look Scully gave   
him for posterity."

A snicker, a muttered "tasty." John could give Langly safe   
ground, if that was what he wanted. Yes, it had been better   
to wait for Langly to come to him. Those few occasions   
Langly looked for comfort, he seemed to come to John   
instead of Frohike, but only in his own time. 

"But John, that fucking MIB *prick*--"

"Was just messing with our heads. C'mon, Langly, think   
about it. No matter how long he's been playing Mulder, he's   
still who he is. And the more upset people like us are, the   
less we can do to hurt him."

"But..." Langly trailed off, moved into a corner and   
shifted some old newsletters and half-melted motherboard   
off the fifth-hand easy chair beneath. It was the color of   
years-dried blood and the one time John had tried to sit in   
it he wondered if Frohike knew any chiropractors.

So, it was all Langly's. And he clearly needed its dubious   
comfort to think. John turned back to his monitor, began   
idly pawing through old military records in the hopes of   
finding some sign of "Morris Fletcher." A birth date, a   
social security number... the man would have major credit   
difficulties in no time. 

But there was no sign to be found, and his contact lenses   
were beginning to burn. Military *schools*, perhaps... The   
man had given every impression of having to spend the vast   
majority of his childhood in short pants. But a break   
first.

Easing up, John wondered when he'd first begun to, well,   
*ease*. Hours hunched over computers, day after day in   
chairs not quite at their best... He'd known precisely   
where the twinge in his back muscles would be located, and   
how that first burn of the chair's imprints on his thighs   
would feel. He was no old man -- a stretch and a jog would   
work out all the kinks -- but a little... care... was   
sometimes prudent. 

However, John was morbidly sure said care had come about   
some time around the inception of the Commodore 64. 

He flicked a glance at Langly, checking on him, to find the   
other man staring at him. He looked lost, and more than a   
little depressed. John checked his watch, shocked and angry   
at himself that he'd let Langly go nearly two and a half   
hours without... without *something*.

"Langly?"

"Mmm...?" It was only barely a question.

"Are you... what is it?"

"Why are you still here, John?"

John snorted and sat back down, letting the chair spin   
until he was facing the other man again. "Good question. We   
don't have *anything* resembling food in this place, do   
we?"

Langly's brow creased and he shook his head, focused for a   
moment on the second file cabinet, John's crumbling Risk   
board game, and then on some point just at the corner of   
the main table before finally reaching John's eyes.

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, I... oh. What are you saying, Langly?"

"Why are you *here*?" It seemed as though the stress had   
required an actual, measurable level of effort, and John   
found himself shaking his head in denial of something he   
knew he didn't want to deal with.

"I don't know what you're talking about." 

"Stop it, just-- Dammit, John, what the hell is wrong with   
you, anyway? You're not *like* us, you could have... you   
could have done anything you wanted, been anything--"

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"Fuck." Langly stood up and began pacing again, hugging   
himself in a way that made John ache. He wasn't looking at   
him anymore. "Why don't you just fucking quit with this   
martyr bullshit, hunh?"

"Martyr?"

Langly froze, and seemed to visibly pull himself back,   
before giving up and spinning to face him, crowding his   
chair against the desk, breathing candy and acid in his   
face, arm braced on the table, body a tensed bundle of heat   
close enough to touch.

"*Martyr*. Some sonofabitch comes in and is kind enough to   
point out what a fucking... a fucking *waste* our lives are   
and you sit there... you just fucking *sit* there and talk   
about how he's just trying to break our fucking *resolve*   
like we're anything but a handful of aging nerds with no   
goddamned lives--"

"Langly--"

"No, dammit, *no*!" So close... "Is this what you needed to   
do, John? Give yourself something to believe in because   
your life was *already* empty? Where's your ex-wife, hunh?   
You never write to her anymore. I know, I noticed, I... you   
got ashamed of your so-called life but you were still too   
fucking *weak* to go out and get something better..."

It seemed almost instinctive to take the flash of anger at   
being so poorly understood, file it away. Langly paused for   
a heartbeat, seemingly irritated by the expression on   
John's face. Another misunderstanding, and this just wasn't   
the time to talk about Margot, and how Margot's new husband   
was... controlling... in ways that discouraged   
correspondence. And if there'd be another night with a red   
face and a battered pillow, so be it.

"... years, John. *Years*. And still you're sitting here,   
sipping your goddamned tea and just typing away. Is it that   
good a dream for you?"

Finally, a pause.

"Are you done?"

Langly was breathing hard, head moving up and down, but he   
was less nodding than... studying John. Knees to chest to   
face to chest and so on. He made some strangled noise,   
seemed about to pull away again, but John reached back to   
awkwardly grab his wrist. Held him there.

"Langly. *Langly*.... Listen to me, please? Listen?"

"What?" Low, hoarse. John held on to his warm, thin wrist   
and struggled hard against the urge to stroke it with his   
thumb. It would only appear soothing, but John had never   
let his body lie for him. After long moments his hand   
stopped aching, and the contact became only... good...   
again. 

"We've seen things, Langly. We *know* things about this   
country that would shake the foundations of every... every   
stupid *fucking* institution I ever wasted my time   
believing in. We've saved *lives*.... God, can't you see   
we've made a difference? What's so special about Morris   
goddamned *Fletcher* that we... that we're doing this now?"

Langly finally met his gaze, searched it for a stretch of   
moments so long that John felt himself moving close,   
breathing more shallowly. The rough, defeated sound of   
Langly's voice froze him, though. 

"It's not Fletcher. Christ, you're right, you're right and   
I'm sorry but it's not *Fletcher*, John. I'm just... I   
want..." 

Without warning Langly wrenched his hand away and stepped   
back. John stood to follow but the other man warded him off   
with a tight, controlled shake of the head. 

"Langly--"

"I know, John, I *know*. There's this... this little space   
between the bottom of my door and the floor and I can see   
you. I saw you all those nights, John, just standing there.   
But you never came inside.... You never come inside."

John felt himself blushing and turned away. His throat was   
tight and he'd never wanted to *run* so badly in his life. 

"And that's it. That's it right there. You'd never let   
yourself... dreams are only good when they don't get too   
real, right, John? Good enough to while away the hours   
between sleep that actually lets you *rest*, but as for   
anything else... Christ, why can't you just go?"

John was stunned, pulled back to a face so hurt it pulled   
the breath from his lungs, leaving him just short of   
gasping, gaping at Langly uselessly. 

"Years, John... *years* of watching you work, watching you   
fucking *charm* anything you want out of everyone who gets   
a look at your eyes, watching you stay, wondering what's   
taking you so long to get out there and do... and get   
everything you deserve from this life. I know you will   
someday, but the waiting... the waiting is fucking killing   
me."

"This... we..." 

It had been an admirable attempt to say something useful,   
but it died the moment John realized he was walking to the   
other man, faded to meaninglessness the moment he grabbed   
Langly's tee shirt in both hands and felt his knuckles   
graze warm flesh under the cotton.

"You... you don't know *shit*."

And he remembered kissing like this, desperate and clumsy   
and needing to get every last iota of sensation from the   
act, because there was no telling when he'd have the chance   
again. Cluttered closets and empty locker rooms and those,   
too, were lost. He *had* Langly, and John didn't think he'd   
be able to let go even if the other man were to take back   
everything and push him away. 

There was no resistance to his kiss, nothing but welcome   
for his hands as they roamed lean muscle under too many   
clothes. Wiry arms around his waist and a slick, warm   
tongue between his lips and Jesus but the contact, the heat   
\--

John pushed closer, rubbed his body along Langly's until   
the action seemed to require too much concentration.   
Langly's hands were finally moving, restless, occasionally   
harsh, but needful in a way that spoke of nights alone   
better, perhaps, than the man himself could. He *wanted*   
this, wanted *John* and it was important that he let Langly   
know he was... there for the taking. 

John let himself relax a bit into the embrace, sucked   
gently on the other man's tongue and suddenly Langly's arms   
tightened around him and his kiss... his kiss was a   
ferocity of lips and tongue and teeth, breath-stealing and   
irresistible, broken only just long enough for a --

"John, I--"

\-- before Langly was backing him against the table and   
claiming his mouth again with the ferocity of opportunity,   
ripping at his suit jacket, giving up when it was just past   
his shoulders. John could feel the tremble in the fingers   
plucking at the buttons of his shirt and moaned into   
Langly's mouth.

This... this need was *God* and He was everywhere at once,   
in the thrust of blue-jeaned hips against the willing   
basket of his own, in the hand that couldn't stay at its   
task long enough to get more than a few buttons undone   
before slipping in and *pressing* against his chest. John   
was going to come in his pants from this, just this, and he   
didn't care at all.

Another broken kiss and the sound he made was high,   
shameless in disappointment, but Langly's mouth was moving   
lover, dragging down his cheek and then sucking hard at his   
throat. John found himself moaning nearly continuously,   
head thrown back in an effort to offer as much of himself   
as possible. 

His hands fluttered at his sides, useless, and he finally   
just gripped the table, an instinct to ground himself in   
reality, brand his palms with stress marks to prove --

"Langly!"

\-- and that was his hand on John's ass, *gripping* with a   
need for possession and pulling him hard against himself,   
biting down on his throat and thrusting trapped cocks   
together, a slide and jab of superheated flesh, hard and   
pulsing, again and again, never-ending and world-  
destroying. 

John's hands flew from the table at their own accord and   
settled themselves on Langly's shoulders with, apparently,   
their last bit of strength because he was helpless to this,   
if unafraid. 

And then there was the jet of warmth that left his counter-  
thrusts ragged and he knew Langly felt it because he was   
kissing him again, and swallowing his cries with another   
kiss, never stopping the snap and roll of his own hips   
until his own orgasm left him shaking and spent against   
John.

Langly might have been relatively small, but he was   
crushing what little air John could get right out of him.   
He pushed a little at the other man's chest and was muzzily   
shocked at the speed with which he drew himself up and...   
Not quite away -- there was no precise loss of *contact* --   
but the weight was gone, save for the curiously insistent   
push of his head against John's chest.

"Sorry, I didn't mean -- I'm such an *asshole*... those   
things I said... fuck."

And then the push, too, was gone, as Langly began to move   
himself off in earnest.

"Jesus, Langly, wait!"

John grabbed the other man's face, looked into still-  
darkened eyes and let out a breath.

"I'm not... I've wanted... I was... Langly. Langly, I'm not   
going anywhere, all right? I'm not. I wouldn't. I   
*couldn't.*"

Long pause while the other man continued to stare at him.   
Drink him down and John couldn't hold back a small noise at   
the sight. 

"Langly--"

"Not leaving, hunh?"

But before he could answer there was a gentle hand at his   
crotch, smoothing and sliding the wet, cooling semen   
against too-sensitive flesh. John groaned, wanted to bat   
the hand away, but Langly's smirk didn't reach his eyes,   
unreadable but blackening further. He groaned again and   
felt his eyes begin to slip shut.

"If you're staying, John..."

"Y-yeah?"

"We should probably get you cleaned up."

"A shower? A shower would be--"

Brief tightening of promise. "I'm not talking about a   
shower."

John hoped that all the answers Langly needed were in the   
reflexive buck of his hips, because he was honestly   
incapable of anything else.

Langly cocked his head, and his smile was both curious and   
a little sad. "What else have I been missing, John?"

The question was vague, hazy, and when John didn't answer,   
Langly removed his hand from his cock and threaded his   
fingers through John's own instead. Led him toward his   
room, but hesitated at the door.

"Wanna come inside, John?" Not looking at him, and there   
was no way to escape the responsibility of answering this   
time. 

"Yeah, yeah I do." 

~~~~  
End.  
~~~~


End file.
